The Opal Crown
by Shu of the Wind
Summary: An Opal-Jeweled witch weaves a tangled web, and the fate of Glacia rests in its strands. Karla/OC. Femmeslash. Previously "In the Shadow of Cassiopeia." Chapter One: "White is the least of the Jewels, but neither is it any lesser, for White carries within itself the birth of the Darkness, and thus of all of the power of the Blood." M for violence and sexuality.


**Title: **In the Shadow of Cassiopeia

**Author: **Shu of the Wind

**Rating: **T. I don't generally write smut, but I dunno. This story may surprise me.

**Summary: **An Opal-Jeweled witch weaves a tangled web, and the fate of Glacia rests in its strands. Karla/OC. Written for Femmeslash February 2013, but published after. Chapter One: "White is the least of the Jewels, but neither is it any lesser, for White carries within itself the birth of the Darkness, and thus of all of the power of the Blood."

**Disclaimer:** Applies for all chapters. I do not own the world, characters, society, or ideas contained within _The Black Jewels Trilogy_ or any of its spin-off novels; they belong to Anne Bishop, and I wish her joy of them. I merely borrow them and make them snarl as I see fit.

* * *

**One: White  
**_White is the least of the Jewels, but neither is it any lesser,  
for White carries within itself the birth of the Darkness,  
and thus of all of the power of the Blood._

In Terreille, an Opal-Jeweled witch wove a tangled web.

Black Widows were still rare in Terreille. Black Widows that had been properly trained, that didn't wander in the Twisted Kingdom, were even more so. Pruul hadn't seen a Black Widow worth the hourglass charm in centuries. Prythian, and all of Hekatah and Dorothea's other false queens, had been steadily eradicating the caste for very good reasons. After all, Black Widows—especially dark-jeweled Black Widows—were a danger to any queen who was aiming to Ring every high-caste male in the Territory. Black Widows could weave the realm of possibility, bring it into the light of day. Black Widows could tell the twisted Queens—and their courts—precisely what would happen if they were allowed to continue ruling.

So Hekatah had commanded—and the Pruulian queens had leapt to obey. It was only now, a good three years after the witch storm that had swept the Realms, that the witches of the Hourglass had begun to reemerge from the cracks they had buried themselves in through the dark years, tentatively spinning their webs, settling back into Terreille society as a whole.

There were still some enclaves, however, that remained hidden away from the rest of society, clinging to the fringes of the world in a desperate attempt to preserve their craft, their webs, and their lives. In Pruul, they were called the Spider Camps—tiny, mobile villages of witches who either carried the completed hourglass, were training refugees to do the same, or had had their inner webs broken by the spear of a Blood male under Prythian's thumb. There were still more that had had their minds fractured from the strength of their visions, or had simply lost their path in the Twisted Kingdom that they all had to walk, at times, for the visions to come true and clear.

Tasha leaned back, stretched her hands high above her head, and closed her eyes, struggling to remember the technique for catching one's breath after sitting in one position, weaving a tangled web, for over six hours. It had felt like chasing a mirage. She'd touch the image, catch the merest glimpse, and then it would vanish again, spiraling away into the abyss. Her shoulders ached, and the flesh of her fingers; her skin felt tight, and she could feel the start of cramps, low in her belly. It was good that she'd woven the webs now, because when her moontime came, her mother would have her in bed and settled under a hot water bottle until they eased up. Gilly's line tended towards wicked cramps and even worse backlash if a witch tried to use Craft at any point during the delicate process of bloodletting, and Tasha had already had one bad experience with her own genetics. She didn't particularly want or need another.

The web hung suspended in its frame, a chip of Rose Jewel twined into the center. It had been a wrench to chip her Birthright Jewel, even though every Black Widow did at some point, when she needed an extra burst of power. This was the first time Tasha had done it herself, however, without Lady Lillian peering over her shoulder, critiquing her work; it had made her heart quiver in her chest to settle the stone into the web, even as she'd been caught in the midst of images, of pain. She reached out, and brushed one finger along a strand, using Craft to activate the image. It was only a flicker in her psychic senses, even after so long chasing it. The tang of ice. A splash of blood. The snarl of a kindred Warlord Prince.

Too tangled, still, for her to make any sense of it. She would need to come back to this web once her moontime was done, again and again, as often as she needed in order to form a picture. As it was, she only could see a reflection. Not even that. A fragment of a reflection of a future that made her belly burn with anxiety. With fear.

She deactivated the chip, put an Opal barrier around the weaving frame, and left the cave. The other Black Widows would know not to touch it once it was shielded, especially considering that, other than Lady Lillian, she had the darkest Jewel in camp.

The Jade Spider Camp had been camped beside the mountain for as long as she'd been apprenticed to Lady Lillian, and perhaps even longer than that. Pruul was mainly made up of the short-lived races, and of the landen, and the camps mimicked the rest of the Territory. The only exception was Lillian herself, and her bodyguard, Tamar. There were no demon-dead. Most of the witches here wanted to fade into the Darkness when they finally died, Tasha thought, grabbing her skirt in both hands and lifting it a bit so she wouldn't trip and break her neck on the rocky steps down to the tents. There were too many tangled webs, too many fates, too many bad memories for them to want to keep on existing after the body's death.

*Mama, I'm coming back.* She sent the thought on a Purple Dusk thread, not bothering to make it distaff. After all, the Jade Spider Camp was made almost entirely of women, aside from four or five males who remained to either live with their wives, guide young witches through their Virgin Night, or hide from the stigma of being shaved. At the current time, there was only one male around who served as a guard, and he was the Lady Lillian's Warlord. He'd sworn to her decades ago, back in Hayll, and even though he'd been shaved and his hands had been broken by the twisted Hayllian Queens, he hadn't been about to leave his lady. He was also the only Eyrien in camp.

*Good.* Gilly sounded vague, as usual. Tasha wondered how much damage control she would have to do once she made it back down to the tents. It didn't sound like her mother had had a _bad _day, per se, especially when it came to the forgetful attacks, but at the same time, she didn't sound as sharp as she had the past few days, either. Well, sharp for Gilly. *The Lady has been looking for you.*

Tasha slipped on the rocks and cursed herself. She knew better than to jog in the dark. *Lady Lillian?* But her teacher had known that she would be up in the weaving caves. She'd been sure to let Lillian know before she'd even considered going up the mountainside to weave. Why would Lady Lillian be searching for her now?

*No,* Gilly replied, and she sounded cross now. *It's the _Lady_.*

That was it. Her mother might have finally cracked. Tasha shook her head and hurried faster.

For so late in the evening, the camp was unnaturally quiet. The children—the few children that remained in this camp, at least—had been pulled into the tents. Tamar was leaning against the well, his arms crossed over his chest, his wings spread wide in the desert air. The sight of him made her stifle a flinch. It had taken her so long to get used to Tamar after what had happened in Prythian's court. She took a long breath, and then bobbed her head. Even though he was only a Warlord and she was a Black Widow, he was still a Warlord, and a formidable male, and worthy of respect. It was the broken Protocol that Lady Lillian had been struggling to instill in all of the new Black Widows, in all of the apprentices and journeymaids and even the full Widows, gleaned from the books that had been hidden from Dorothea's purge and what she remembered of her own training.

"Lady Lillian was looking for me?"

Tamar lifted his eyebrows in surprise, but he didn't deny it. He straightened, and lifted one arm. Tasha took it, her toothed hand resting lightly on his wrist. They walked in silence, because Tamar's tongue had been ripped out centuries ago. She'd only heard him twice on a Purple Dusk thread, and both times his voice had reminded her of an avalanche.

The camp was built around Lillian's tent, lines thrown out from it in imitation of a healing web. Her tent was not the largest—that honor belonged to the journeymaid school—but still, it was larger than the tent Tasha shared with Gilly, and every time she went inside she felt like she could finally breathe. It was the same on the mountain, too, away from all the people of the camp. She could breathe and stretch and feel as though she was alive and free, instead of living in hiding on the edge of a cliff.

Then she felt the air inside the tent, and her blood went cold.

Lillian was standing, which was the first warning. Lillian rarely stood. She'd lost a limb during one of her clashes with the Pruul Queens, and even with her prosthetic, she didn't like putting weight on her shoddy ankles for too long. The second hint was the overwhelming scent of _male_—a dark-Jeweled male, or, at least, darker than her or Lillian. That didn't mean much to many people in Kaeleer, but it meant a damn lot in Terreille, where all of the darker-Jeweled blood had been broken or destroyed. He was Opal, she decided, feeling it resonate with her own Jewel, but a darker Opal than hers. Blood Opal to her typical Jewel. It made her nervous.

There was another curious scent in the tent, something that she didn't recognize. It was musty, and had a hint of blood to it that made the psychic feel of the room deeply unsettling. It was coming from the man who stood across from Lady Lillian. White-blonde hair, sharp blue eyes. An attractive man, she thought, but closed-off. He kept his emotions tightly shielded as he looked at her, and offered his hands, palms up, baring his wrists to her tooth. "Lady."

She didn't hesitate. Protocol screamed at her. Tasha reached forward, accepted his hands, and held them lightly for a moment before letting go. Her nails scraped against the insides of his wrists. "Warlord."

He studied her very carefully, and that was when everything clicked. The musty smell was death. The curious psychic scent…

_Demon-dead_. This man was demon-dead. What was a demon-dead Warlord doing in their camp?

"Tasha." Lillian inclined her head, but didn't take her eyes off of the Warlord. "This is Lord Morton, a visitor from…very far away. He has come to inquire after a Black Widow's vision in a tangled web."

Tasha took a breath and let it out. Very far away meant _Hell_, of course, but Lillian was being overly delicate and not wanting to say it. Lord Morton seemed to realize that as well, and looked severely uncomfortable in his own skin. He was still breathing, she realized, watching his chest rise and fall, and she wondered if that was typical for the demon-dead or just an old habit that the body had not yet forgotten. Everyone in the tent felt antsy, except for Tamar, who was hovering close to the killing edge. She could see it in his glazed, sleepy eyes. She prayed that Lillian would get a hold of her guard soon.

"Has he," she replied, and looked at Lord Morton again. He kept giving her little curious glances, as though he'd been waiting for her to arrive and now was questioning if she had fit the image in his mind. She felt something stirring in her gut, though it wasn't quite desire. It was something else. She rather thought, if he'd been alive, this man could have been hers. And that was wrong, wasn't it, because she wasn't a Queen. She was only a Black Widow and a witch, and they didn't claim men like Queens did.

But men could claim them, she reminded herself, glancing at Tamar and Lillian. A man could stake a claim on a witch who was not a Queen, and serve her, and feel an echo of that same bond, if they never came across a Queen who called to them the way a Queen ought. She rather thought this man—this demon-dead Warlord—had already chosen a Queen, had already served her, but if he hadn't met that Queen, he might have been willing to work with her.

She took a shaky breath. The Warlord did as well, and that confirmed it in her mind. She was making him anxious. So Tasha took another breath, smiled, and gestured to the chairs.

"If you're here to talk webs, my lord, why don't we sit? I'm sure riding the Webs all the way out here has been tiring, especially since the sun set so recently. We don't have the blood wine, I'm afraid, but we can find a replacement, if you wish."

Morton blinked, and for the first time, he seemed to relax. A hint of a smile quirked his mouth as he shook his head. "No, I'm fine, lady, thank you. To be honest, I'd rather say what I came to say, and then leave, if it's not too much trouble for you."

"Of course." Lillian gestured to Tamar, and then sat down. The Eyrien stood behind her chair, holding onto the back of it with his twisted hands, staying close to breathe in her psychic scent. He wasn't on the edge any longer, she could feel, but he was still damn close. _Mother Night_, she thought. _Mother Night._ "If you could tell Lady Natasha what you told me, Warlord, it would do a great deal to clear up the current confusion, I believe."

"Of course." Morton inclined his head, and then turned his full attention on Tasha. "I've come, Lady, because an…acquaintance of mine has requested that I do so. The Lady has recently woven a tangled web."

"This acquaintance of yours is a Black Widow?"

"A Black Widow Healer Queen, yes," he corrected, and then moved on before that revelation knocked her sideways. A triple-gift witch. Morton knew a _triple-gift witch_. How many witches in the Realm—in any of the Realms?—could claim a triple-gift?

_The Lady has been looking for you._

*Mama,* she said, on a distaff thread, *Mama, which Lady did you mean?*

"She spoke in riddles, I'm afraid, but it was enough for me to come to seek you out, Lady Natasha." He ran a hand through his hair. "She said to tell you of blood on snow. She said you'd know what she meant."

_Blood on the snow. A blade of ice slicing through flesh. The roar of a kindred Warlord Prince_. It flickered through her mind, here and then gone. Oh, yes. She knew what the Lady had meant.

*I meant the Lady, of course.* Gilly said, cutting through Tasha's thoughts.

*Mama, that's singularly unhelpful.*

Gilly laughed, and then broke the thread. There was no getting it back again. Tasha focused her full attention on the Warlord sitting opposite her, and began to play with the hourglass at her throat. It was a habit she'd picked up in Prythian's Court, to remind other witches who they were dealing with, and to protect herself. Morton didn't seem to notice.

"Yes," she said. "I know what she means. However, I'm still…sorting through the web, myself. There is little else I have drawn from it aside from what you've already said."

Morton nodded. "She told me little else. However, it was enough for her to…encourage me to leave my place of refuge, at least for a few hours, in order to give you this." He offered a letter that was stamped with a black wax seal, with an insignia of a unicorn's horn. "She said everything you would need to know is in that letter."

Tasha hesitated. She looked at Morton. Morton looked back at her, and for the first time she saw the fear in his eyes, the worry. He was legitimately frightened of what his Queen had told him, whatever it was, and it had been enough to bring him out of hiding—out of Hell, she corrected herself—in order to prevent it.

Tasha took the letter, and opened it.

_Greetings, Sister,_

_It has been three years since we have last spoken, and I am not certain that at that time you would have recognized me as a person, or even a fellow Black Widow. I felt your panic in the darkness that was unleashed that day three years ago, and I believe that you heard me when I shouted your name. _

Oh, she'd heard it. That dark scream of power that had swept over Terreille, the witchstorm that had devastated the three Realms, rid them of the twisted Blood. That husky sepulchral voice that rang with power, with joy, with gut-crunching agony. _Ride it_, she'd screamed. _Ride it._ And later Lillian had told her that it must have been the Lady of the Black Mountain. It must have been Witch.

Cold sweat broke out on her forearms.

_Your name was one out of hundreds that I clung to—only hundreds, for all the beings that once existed in Terreille—but it has lingered in my mind these past three years, and now I finally understand why._

_My Sisters and I have been privy to a tangled web that, I believe, you have shared, Sister. It is not a clean thing, nor is it pretty, and it is still so shadowed that there is much even I haven't seen. However, there are still hints that I have seen, portents that it would be unwise to ignore. I have chosen to heed them._

_There is a Court that needs you, Sister. There is a Court and a young witch that will need your assistance. I do not know how yet, or why, or why the Darkness has chosen you, out of all possible candidates, but I know that it will happen, whatever it is, and that without the presence of the Opal-Jeweled witch I called out to that day three years ago, something will break. _

_I have left you in the care of the Warlord who bears this letter. He has my complete trust._

_Give my regards to Gilly. _

It was signed only with a _J_, but the dark power that clung to the paper—Gray? Ebon-gray? Black? She wasn't sure—left her in no doubts as to who had written it. Tasha folded the paper with shaking hands, and offered it to Lady Lillian. Her mentor took it, and read it. Then she read it again, and when she lowered the paper, her face had gone dead-white.

"The Queen has summoned me, then," Tasha said, and it was a miracle her voice didn't tremble, considering the way her whole body seemed to be shaking on the inside.

Morton relaxed fully, now. They knew who he was, who he represented. It let him breathe. "Yes."

"Where am I to go?" Tasha said, simply. "And when?"

"We are going to Glacia," Morton said, and rose. "As for when, I was rather thinking now. It'll take a few hours to cross the Realms, and I'd rather be back in Hell by sunrise."

It felt as though she'd been stabbed. Tasha put a hand to her belly, and Morton's eyes sharpened. His nostrils flared. The start of moon's blood. What a time for this to happen. Behind her, she heard Tamar shift. As one of Lillian's students, she fell under his claim, and with her moon's blood…

Tasha looked back at the Eyrien, and reached out. Her fingers brushed against the back of his hand. *I'm fine, Tamar,* she said, on a Purple Dusk thread. *_Fine_.*

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked at Lillian, and they conversed, silently. Then Lillian nodded, and turned to Morton.

"Tamar will accompany you as far as the Realm Gates."

Morton bared his teeth and snarled. Tamar snarled back.

_Mother Night_, Tasha thought. _Mother Night, Mother Night, Mother Night_.

"Lord Morton," she said, and this time her voice was shaking. "Tamar is the guard of the Jade Spider Camp. And…and he has been part of my life since I was a child." _Prior claim, Warlord. Deal with it._ "I would feel more comfortable leaving my home if he could accompany me."

Morton's eyes snapped to her. His pupils were dilated, his teeth still bared, but there was a hint of understanding in his eyes. He breathed again. "Understood."

"I'll just pack," Tasha said nervously, and then she walked out of the tent as quickly as she could without being rude. Once she was out, she ran, all the way back to the tent she shared with her mother, and tried not to vomit.

_Mother Night._

* * *

Morton closed his eyes, clenched his fists under the table, and tried to remember how to breathe. _Damn. _He bit the inside of his cheek. It didn't work nearly as well as it had when he'd been alive—after all, it wasn't like his body could feel much pain anymore—but it was a habit that offered him some peace, some semblance of normality. _Damn, damn, damn._

Jaenelle had warned him, damn it. She'd _warned _him. "She's not a Queen," she'd said, and she'd reached out and put a hand to his cheek. She'd been the first person from his life, other than Saetan, that he'd seen since the body's death, and he'd been horrified at how thin she'd become. A body still recovering from the witchstorm that had nearly destroyed her. "She's not a Queen, Morton, but I think…I think she might affect you."

"You are my Queen," he'd said, softly. And despite the new Jewel that had been strung around her neck, she still was. "You and Karla, you're my Queens."

"Yes, but a witch can claim loyalty just as well as a Queen."

"Only if a man doesn't have a prior claim."

"Not true," she said, and he'd felt deeply unsettled. "Warlords are drawn to witches, Queen or no. It's a way of life for us, Morton, for both witches and warlords. So prepare yourself."

He wasn't attracted to her. Mother Night, he didn't think he'd be able to handle it if he'd wanted her sexually. But she reminded him of Kalush, and the depth of his reaction to that had surprised him. He'd always liked Kalush the best out of all of the First Circle, had always been closest to her and Aaron out of the rest of the Ladies and the boyos. Something about the Lady Natasha brought back the instinct of a Warlord—to defend, to protect, to obey—that he'd been trying to push away through the past three years he'd spent in Hell. It bothered him. _Hell's fire, Jaenelle, you said she'd affect me, but I didn't expect anything like _this_._

And the worst part was it felt as though he was betraying his Queen. It felt as though he was betraying his cousin. And that hurt.

A spear thread pricked at him. Purple Dusk. Unfamiliar. The psychic scent was overwhelmingly Eyrien. The guard. He opened his first mental barrier, hesitant, keeping a careful eye on the Eyrien warrior. He could destroy this man, he realized, this Purple Dusk Warlord. He was the dominant male. But that didn't mean he would. *Tamar.*

*Morton,* Tamar replied. His voice was low and gravely, like falling rocks. *She's not yours.*

*Not sexually, no,* Morton said, carefully. He could feel the question in Tamar's thread, the nudging sense that he was inspecting Morton's words, considering them. Tamar rocked back onto his heels, thoughtful.

*I have prior claim,* the Eyrien reminded him. Trust an Eyrien to be as blunt as an avalanche.

*And that I don't contest. I'm demon-dead, Warlord. My place is with the dead. I will fulfill my duty as escort, and then return to my place. You have my word on that.*

Satisfaction rolled through the thread. Tamar retreated. Lady Lillian waited until he'd touched her shoulder, and then spoke again.

"Lord Morton, you seem to be depriving me of one of my best students. I hope she'll be well taken care of in this place you're taking her to."

"Glacia," Morton corrected. He didn't like Lillian's tone. "It's called Glacia."

"I see." Lillian steepled her fingers. "And she will be…safe?"

"Yes." The tainted Blood had been cleansed out of Glacia. That he was certain of. Morton nodded. "She'll be safe there." _Besides, Karla's viciously protective. And if Jaenelle's sent her to Karla's Court…_

"Good," said Lady Lillian. "Good."

She stood, and left the room. Tamar inclined his head to Morton, and then followed her. No goodbyes. None expected. Morton waited until they were out of earshot, and then he sank back into his chair, putting his face in his hands. His death wound was aching in his chest.

_If she doesn't come to Glacia…_

"Mother Night, Jaenelle," he said aloud, looking at the table. "What on earth are you trying to prevent?"


End file.
